Someday Soon
by SHERlockedFangirl
Summary: What would life had been like if someone else took the fall?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock couldn't do it.

Logically, it should be easy. After all, it's only seventeen steps that Sherlock needs to take to reach 221B. But he simply couldn't.

He stood at the foot of the stairs, doing nothing, just staring at them. His feet felt as if they were made of lead, which Sherlock knew to be impossible, and yet he did nothing to stop a thought like that to rush through his mind.

Someone closed the door to 221 behind him. Possibly Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's mind was too preoccupied to remember that Mrs Hudson had left that afternoon for her sister's. There were more important things to think about.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. A strong, steady hand which wasn't shaking. If Sherlock looked down, he would notice that his own were shaking quite violently. He turned his head slowly to the hand on his shoulder. His eyes continued to follow the arm attached to it until he saw the face of Lestrade. Sherlock noted that Lestrade's eyes were filled with an aching sadness, there were more lines to his face now, and he looked exhausted. The last case had drained him. It had drained the entirety of Lestrade's team. It was tough, for everyone. Especially Sherlock.

Sherlock's changeable eyes met Lestrade's hazel ones. He gave Sherlock a weak smile, before giving Sherlock's shoulder, what he assumed was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. He removed his hand and made his way slowly up the stairs to 221B, leaving Sherlock still stood at the bottom of the stairs.

_Get it together_. Sherlock scolded himself internally. _This isn't what he would have wanted._

He had done so well all day. He hadn't broken down, and had managed to hold himself together in front of everyone. And there had been so many people. Any other day, Sherlock would have been proud of himself for behaving. But not today. He took in a deep breath and began to ascend the stairs.

Each step felt like an enormous effort, and by the time he reached the top, he was exhausted.

Lestrade was already moving around the flat, tidying the papers that littered the floor. And the desk. And the kitchen table. Pretty much every available surface. Lestrade moved into the kitchen, and out of Sherlock's vision.

One again, Sherlock was frozen. He couldn't bring himself to enter the flat. He envied the ease with which Lestrade just seemed to glide into the flat as if it wasn't emptied of life.

The trembling in Sherlock's hands spread like ice up his arms, through his shoulders and down his spine, until his whole body was shivering as if he'd spent the whole day in the Arctic conditions of London in winter without his beloved Belstaff coat.

Suddenly, the light was too bright, and there was a pricking sensation in his eyes. He forced them closed against the intrusion and tried to control his body as it continued to shake. But it was hopeless. There was no chance of control. Not now. Probably not ever again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock heard Lestrade's footsteps move towards him.

There was a trail of unexplainable warmth down Sherlock's cheeks as he screwed his eyes even more tightly shut. It was becoming more difficult to breathe. Air entered into his lungs in great gasps. The trail of warmth, Sherlock realised, were his own tears. He wasn't just crying, he was sobbing. His chest felt like is was trapped in a giant vice, and every time he tried to take another gasping breath it was pulled tighter. It was not in his mind, it was a physical pain. His stomach rolled and cramped as another sob wracked through his body. He wrapped his arms around himself. His head dropped so he was completely curled in.

The same hand that had rested on his shoulder at the bottom of the stairs was now joined by it's twin, supporting his weight as he collapsed against the wall. The hands guided him down until he was sat on the landing with his back up against the wall as he continued to cry.

"Hey, Sherlock. Look at me."

Sherlock couldn't. It was impossible. If he opened his eyes, he would have to face the facts, he'd have to accept that this was real. If he kept his eyes closed, a least he could pretend.

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

One of the hands moved from his arm to the nape of his neck, forcing his head to turn towards Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock, you've done so well today. You've been incredibly brave and I understand that it hurts, God knows I do. It's killing me to see you like this but need you to look at me."

Sherlock complied, peeling his eyes open slowly, allowing himself to adjust to the harsh sunlight that was streaming through the windows. Of course it would be sunny today. Pathetic fallacy was an occurrence only found in romantic literature, not in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

His vision was blurred due to the excess moisture in his eyes. As he made out the fuzzy shape of Lestrade, the tears spilled over. He wiped them off his cheeks with his fist, body too tense to uncurl his fingers, turning away from Lestrade as he did so. One look at the shock and pity on the DI's face had been enough for Sherlock to guess just how broken he must look.

Greg straightened up and held his hands out to he man before him.

"Come on, we should probably get you into the flat."

"I_ can't._"

"Sherlock, you need to-"

"You don't understand. Everything we were is in that flat. It's embedded into the wood of the table, it's woven into the fabric of the cushions. It's in the dust, the wallpaper, the very air. Everything is tainted with memories of _him_. It's bad enough that I had to bury him today, but please don't make me face the ghosts of our past. I'm not ready to do that."

Greg knew what Sherlock meant. When he'd entered the flat, the wave of grief that washed over him was so powerful it overwhelmed him and he'd nearly turned around and walked straight back out. But he'd needed to remain strong - or appear to be - for Sherlock's sake.

He turned until he was leaning against the wall, and then slid down until he was sat side by side with the world's only Consulting Detective. Gone was the high-functioning sociopath. In his place was a broken man, with eyes so empty it made Greg's heart clench. It was scary to see this man - once so great, quick and aloof - reduced to this. And there was nothing he could do, and that made Greg feel totally useless. He ran his hands through his short, silver hair.

"It was my fault." The voice was so quiet and timid that Greg could hardly believe it was coming from the man next to him. Sherlock had taken his face out of his hands, which were now resting of his knees drawn up to his chest. At full height, Sherlock Holmes was often rather intimidating. In this state, he couldn't even intimidate a mouse. His eyes - usually so analytical as they took in every piece of information available to them - were staring at nothing, completely blank. It was disconcerting.

"No, Sherlock."

"If I had just told him what he meant to me as a friend."

"Sherlock, this was nobody's fault."

"I should have realised that he could never just get over the PTSD, the depression."

"Sherlock-"

"He was my best friend. My only friend. And he died thinking his life was worthless. He died thinking it couldn't get better."

The sobbing began again. Although it helped to relieve some of the pain, it did nothing t fill the hole in his life, the flat, his heart. A hole that was created the moment his best friend took the step off of St Bart's hospital. The hole that could never be filled. Only one person could fill that hole, and Sherlock had just attended his funeral. Only John Watson was capable of making Sherlock feel complete.


	2. Chapter 2

Simple. Black stone. Gold lettering.

_John Hamish Watson. Soldier, Doctor, Friend._

It was situated just under the shade of a tree, a solitary protrusion from the grassy covering of the ground around it.

He wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

But it was still painful for Sherlock as he and Mrs Hudson approach the elegant black stone which marked where his best friend now resided. There were flowers. Lots of them. Roses (from Mrs Hudson), lilies (from Lestrade), sunflowers (from Molly), carnations (from Sarah). They were laid over the grassy patch which lay before the smooth stone that jutted from the ground at such a harsh angle.

He would have liked the sunflowers best, Sherlock thought. They would have reminded him of happiness. He would have wanted people to be happy, not sad or worried.

But happiness was impossible now. Sherlock was a broken man. The sunflowers were now taunting him instead of comforting.

Bees seemed particularly attracted to the yellow petals, and three or four flew lazily from one flower to the next as they collected pollen and nectar from their precious findings.

The two companions stood in silence, just watching the light reflect off of the polished surface of the grave. Just a hint of sunlight danced through the cloudy skies that were typical of an afternoon in London.

Mrs Hudson was hyper-aware of the man stood next to her, sensing that he did not want to talk. He had not wanted to talk sine the day the stone was put in place. He seemed entirely focused on the words that were now immortal. Soldier, Doctor, Friend. But he had been so much more to Sherlock. There was not a name for what had happened between them, but friend just did not seem to cover it. Sherlock's face was not schooled into an expression of indifference, as it so often was. It looked entirely full of... nothingness. That was the only word she could produce to describe it. His eyes were empty, as if he was staring straight through the gravestone. But there were small creases by his eyes, which Mrs Hudson knew was a sign that Sherlock was desperately trying to hold back tears.

She could not stand there and watch Sherlock all apart slowly. And she knew Sherlock would not wish her to witness it either, preferring to work through his emotional torments alone. As he had once told her: Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.

Without saying a word, Mrs Hudson patted Sherlock's arm lightly, before turning and walking back up the path to the waiting, black car that Mycroft had provided for their visit. It was their first one since the funeral.

Sherlock registered Mrs Hudson walk away, but did not turn, he did not even move. He just continued to stare at the grave - John's grave.

He had never thought of it in that way. John's grave. It made it seem all to real. It made it seem that John really had jumped from the roof of t Bart's. That his best friend was so desperately unhappy that he chose to end his life rather that live and let Sherlock try to help.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the tears that betrayed that inside he was being torn into shreds. Nothing had ever hurt like this.

But with his eyes closed, all he could see was John on the rooftop, hear John's voice as they spoke on the phone.

_John, stood on the edge of the roof. Sherlock, just stood there, helpless on the pavement below._

_"John, what on earth are you doing? Get down."_

_"I can't, Sherlock."_

_"Don't be an idiot, John. It's just two steps backwards. You've never been an idiot, I know you know that."_

_"Sherlock, I can't come down."_

_"Yes you can."_

_"I've been thinking about this for a while now-"_

_"No."_

_"-and there's nothing anyone can o to change my mind."_

_"John, please. Just come down. We'll talk about this, I promise, just get down."_

_"I'm a deeply unhappy man, Sherlock."_

_"That's it, I'm coming to get you."_

_Sherlock taking a few steps forward. _

_"No. Stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Can you do this for me?"_

_John's arm reaching out, begging for him to stay in place. _

_"Alright."_

_Sherlock holding his hands up in surrender, moving back into place._

_"John, I-"_

_"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I would have left a note-"_

_"John-"_

_"-but I think this phone call should suffice."_

_"-please."_

_"You won't miss me, no-one will."_

_"That's a lie and you know it."_

_John's laughter rang in his ears._

_"I'm sorry. Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_"No."_

_John throwing his phone. John reaching out his arms, like a bird about to take flight. But John didn't have wings. John taking that step. The step that would end his life._

_"JOHN!"_

_Sherlock shouting at the top of his voice, so loudly it hurt. John free-falling through the air. Sherlock, following him with his eyes. John vanishing from sight behind the ambulance station. Gone. Sherlock automatically moving forward to reach him. Sherlock getting knocked down by a cyclist. Sherlock pulling himself up, moving forward again. Sherlock turning the corner._

_John Watson's body on the pavement. John Watson's blood soaking the white stone. John Watson's lifeless eyes staring into nothingness._

_Sherlock Holmes's life shattering._

_A crowd gathering. Sherlock pushing through._

_"Let me through. Please. He's my friend. He's my only friend. Please."_

_Sherlock looking for a pulse, and finding none._

_"_I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock's voice cracked as he addressed the stone.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm sorry for not recognising that you were unhappy. I'm sorry for being, probably the worst flatmate imaginable. I'm sorry I never asked. I'm sorry I drugged your coffee at Baskerville. I'm sorry I ruined so many of your dates. I'm sorry I couldn't save you"

Sherlock bought a hand up to wipe the treacherous tears from his face. Only after he'd wiped them i he remember that there was no-one here to witness them.

And with that, Sherlock turned to rejoin Mrs Hudson and go back to Baker Street. It was not going back home. Baker Street without John was no longer home.

* * *

From a safe distance away, and guarded by the shadow of a towering oak tree, a very much alive John Watson looked on as his best friend walked away from his grave, still wiping away his tears. He wanted nothing more that to walk up to the man, to put his arms around him, apologise an go back home. But that was impossible - not whilst Moriarty's network was still fully operational.

_"I'm sorry I couldn't save you."_

_Oh, Sherlock,_ John thought. _You've done more than enough. Now it's time for me to return the favour._

John turned with military precision and did, what he'd come to know as, the hardest thing he'd ever have to do.

He walked away from his life. From his family. From his work. And most importantly, from Sherlock.

_Someday,_ he thought, _I'll come back. Someday soon, I'll come home._


	3. Chapter 3

Greg dialled again.

_"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. I would apologise for not being able to take your call but what I'm doing to prevent this is probably far more interesting. Leave a message and I'll see whether you're worth my time."_

"Dammit, Sherlock," the greying detective swore under his breath. If there was one thing on this planet that Greg Lestrade was best at it was cursing under his breath, and he had one person to thank for it.

_"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. I would apologise for not being able to take your call but what I'm doing to prevent this is probably far more interesting. Leave a message and I'll see whether you're worth my time."_

Greg hung up again. It was his fifth attempt in fifteen minutes. He decided a trip to Baker Street was in order.

It had been over five months since John had died. Three weeks ago Sherlock had locked himself in 221B and had not emerged at all. Not even for a case.

It was incredibly unhealthy, and Greg had been trying for months to get him out of the flat but to no avail. Every time he tried to reach Sherlock on his mobile, it rang straight through to voicemail. Clearly Sherlock hadn't bothered charging his phoned.

If it weren't for the fact that Sherlock let him into the flat whenever he visited personally, Greg would have ended up summoning Mycroft to sort his younger brother out.

As it turned out, Mycroft needed no summons. Whenever Greg visited Sherlock, he would often find Mycroft sat in Sherlock's armchair, but never John's. Sherlock did not allow anyone to sit in John's chair, ever.

He wasn't eating, that much was obvious. He was alarmingly thin, and yet, by some miracle, was still alive and and able to function.

He wasn't sleeping well, if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by.

Sherlock wasn't even speaking. That was what terrified Greg the most. The fact that the lanky, curly haired genius who loved the sound of his own voice more than his brother, was refusing to utter even a single syllable.

The whole situation caused Greg to feel out of his depth, it was not only Sherlock who suffered from sleepless nights, and on more than one occasion had found himself at Baker Street in the middle of the night to make sure that Sherlock wasn't doing anything stupid. There was no need, of course. Mycroft had the whole placed bugged and if Sherlock did anything - reach for a gun, or a bottle of pills, or a needle - the flat would be swarming with bodyguards and medical professionals within seconds. But Greg needed to check himself. He needed the physical proof, that reassurance that no grainy CCTV image could supply.

More often than not when Greg visited, he was curled up on the sofa with his back to the world, either asleep or in that ridiculous mind palace of his.

On occasions though, Sherlock would be composing.

On this particular visit, Sherlock was stood at the window, staring out into Baker Street, watching life flurry past whilst letting his own waste away as he was consumed by grief and guilt.

Greg entered the flat. Absolutely nothing had changed since John had died, expect from the thick layer of dust that seemed to have settled onto every non-moving surface in the flat.

"You ever gonna charge your phone, mate?"

Sherlock didn't respond. Greg hadn't expected him to.

"Could've used your input today. Anderson was a bloody nightmare."

Still no response.

"Sherlock you have to leave the flat at some point."

"He does."

Greg turned his attention to Mycroft. Usually, their interactions were kept at a minimum, their only common concern being Sherlock.

"What?"

"He does, I'm fact, leave the flat, Detective Inspector."

Greg was stunned into silence. Sherlock was leaving the flat? And he couldn't even pick up his bloody phone?

"When? You never told me."

"I had no reason to."

Sherlock turned,Not to acknowledge either of them, but to delicatley pick up his violin and raise it to underneath his chin. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and began to play what Greg had entitled in his head 'John's Song'.

It was the most heart wrenching, utterly shattering piece of music that Greg had ever heard, and one look at Mycroft's face told him that the elder Holmes brother was thinking exactly the same thing. Sherlock was pouring all of the emotion that he refused to express in any other way into the composition, and Greg quickly had to leave the room before he became overwhelmed.

He hadn't gone far, just to the stairs before his exhausted body dropped onto the top step, his hands burying themselves into the silver stands atop his head. He could still hear the music floating from he flat. The click of a door closing muffled the music slightly, and then slow, steady footsteps approached him as he sat there, cradling his own head in his hands and trying very hard not to feel the pain that was being communicated through Sherlcok's playing.

"Everyday at 7am, Sherlock goes to visit his grave."

There was no need for Mycroft to elaborate. Greg knew exactly whose grave it was that Sherlock apparently visited on a daily basis.

"What can we do, Mycroft?"

He was reaching the end of his tether. Sherlock clearly did not want to recover from his loss, and Greg could see no way of helping.

"The situation will resolve itself soon enough, Detective Inspector."

Greg scoffed.

"You think everything will fix itself that easily? The man's a wreck. He's not himself. Sherlock Holmes died along John Watson that day and there is nothing we can do about it, so what's the point of even trying?"

Greg slammed his fist into the wall next to him, creating a slight dent in the plaster, and a small graze across his knuckles. Not that he cared, he couldn't even feel it.

The music continued in the background. Even Mycroft had shown no surprise or alarm at the sudden outburst.

"I assure you, Detective Inspector, the situation will resolve itself eventually."

Greg looked up at the man above him. Greg disliked being treated like an idiot, which is what Mycroft was doing by giving him these bloody ridiculous ambiguous statements. Mycroft regarded him, before turning back to attend to his brother. There was something off about what Mycroft was saying, and the way he was going about it, but Greg couldn't put his finger on it, and was too tired to even try.

_The situation will resolve itself, yeah right,_ Greg thought.

"It's going to take a bloody _miracle_ to get us through this."

There was a harsh screeching noise as Sherlock suddenly cut off his playing. Greg fled back into the room, panicking that some,thing had happened to him. Sherlock had resumed his staring out of the window, and Greg was just about to turn and leave again when he heard it. A small, quiet voice, cracking and raspy from disuse, but could only be coming from one person.

"A miracle," the first words that Sherlock had said in weeks. "Please, John. Just one more miracle."

Miles away, in a small holding cell in Russia, a man was fighting for his survival, fighting to finish what he'd given up everything for, fighting to come home.

John was fighting to be that one miracle that Sherlock so desperately wished for.


	4. Chapter 4

It was early evening in Baker Street as a warm, familiar voice floated through the air.

"You really should get out a bit more, Sherlock, and definitely eat more. I can count your ribs from here."

"What for? There's nothing of interest for me out there, not without your company."

John smiled at Sherlock from across the table, before returning to the newspaper in his hand. The paper was blank, why on Earth would an imaginary paper need information? It wasn't as if Sherlock was going to read it. An imaginary paper to accompany the imaginary man.

"I always knew you were a sentimental git." The imaginary John laughed fondly. "I don't see why you hide it so very deep, I always liked knowing you were human."

"Yes, well, your opinion hardly matters anymore does it?"

Imaginary John looked fake affronted.

"I am genuinely wounded and hurt by that you lanky git," he smirked and shot Sherlock a cheeky, knowing wink. The small gesture felt like a knife in Sherlock's gut.

"You should have thought about that before you jumped off a building."

John didn't react.

Sherlock had never intended to go mad, it was just one of those things that crept up on you and by the time you realised , it was too late.

But Sherlock welcomed that madness. How could he reject it if it was bringing him John? Sherlock, of course, knew that it was not actually John. He might have been driven mad with grief (as cliche as it sounded), but he was not an idiot.

It started about a month after John had jumped. One day Sherlock had just woken up and there he was, sat in his armchair as if he'd never left. Sherlock had run to him, but as John stood to greet him, Sherlock passed straight through him.

"I'm not real, you daft sod. I just thought you needed the company."

From that moment, the imaginary John had accompanied him everywhere, even to the grave where the real John rested, buried deep I'm the Earth. The only times imaginary John left him were when there were other people present. Sherlock had a tendency to speak out loud to the hallucination, but would still prefer not to do so in other company. Just because Sherlock himself knew he was mad, did not mean he was keen on the idea of everyone else knowing.

"Eat something. For me, please?"

Sherlock looked back to John, who was staring at him with a pleading expression that closely resembled a small child who wants the last slice of cake.

"If you were real, I'd be worried about your sanity with a face like that," Sherlock retorted as he grudgingly got up from his chair and proceeded to the toaster.

"It's not my sanity that's in question."

"And who's fault is that I wonder."

"Yours, you bloody prat. You know that this is a stage of the mourning process. A bit extreme in your case but still."

"I still think it's your fault," muttered Sherlock under his breath as he waited for the toast to pop up.

"Pray, tell me why it's my fault."

"You're the one that died. You're the one who left me in this state."

"People die everyday, Sherlock."

"But not my best friend. You were the only friend I had, John. And you didn't just die. You purposefully jumped to your death and you made me stand there and watch. That's how it's your fault."

There was no reply from John, and he wasn't there when Sherlock looked back towards him. There was, however, and unexpected reply from the doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Molly made her way around the table and brought her hands up to his face, wiping at something beneath his eyes and along his cheekbones. It was only then that Sherlock noticed the tears. Damn, he thought he'd stopped crying, but it seemed like his body had other ideas.

"How much did you hear?" Sherlock managed to ask, his voice trembling only slightly.

"Since you got up to make toast." Molly flushed red as she confessed her intrusion. "I did knock, but I don't think you heard. Mrs Hudson let me up."

So, she'd heard rather a lot. But she didn't look at him with pity, or fear, as one would assume someone would if they'd just walked in on you talking to a hallucination of your dead friend. She just looked sad, and if Sherlock had been paying attention, he would have seen the underlying guilt that shadowed her face.

"Please, don't tell anyone." Sherlock never said please. Maybe a few times if he wanted something from John, but usually, pleading was beneath him. Maybe this was why that one word broke Molly's heart a little.

"I won't," the mousy haired girl promised as she continued to wipe his tears. "Sherlock, it's okay to be upset. It's normal - healthy, even - to cry."

So Sherlock did. Molly pulled him into a tight hug until the worst of it was over. She then managed to manoeuvre him into the living room where she settled him onto the sofa. She draped a blanket over his shoulders before moving back to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and pushed a mug of tea into his hands. Sherlock automatically lifted it to his lips. Upon the first swapo he grimaced. Sherlock took sugar in his tea, but this was just too sweet. There could have easily been six or seven spoonfuls in there.

Sherlock knew what Molly was doing. The blanket, the tea, the looking at him with a certain amount of cautiousness that meant she thought he was going to have another breakdown at any second.

"I am not in shock, Molly." He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders.

"I know, I just didn't know what else to do. I'm not the doctor around here-" Molly let out a horrified gasp at what shed just said, tears springing to her own eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to- I wasn't- I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Molly."

It wasn't fine, not really. But seeing how he couldn't even handle his own emotions, he didn't want to be dealing with a distraught Molly as well.

The flat felt suddenly stifling. Everything reminded him of John, and Molly's accidental slip seemed to trigger this. There was too much John - in the flat, in his mind, everywhere.

Maybe everyone was right. He needed to get out of the flat.

"Fancy getting something to eat, Molly?"

Molly blinked up at him, eyes still shining with her unshod tears.

"Everyone's been telling me I need to get out more and actually eat so etching decent, and is way we'd be killing two birds with one stone."

Sherlock didn't like the idea of eating out without John. But he knew he'd have to get over all of his aversions and anxieties sooner or later, and now seemed like a good time to start. Besides, maybe if Mycroft and Lestrade saw him outside and eating, they might leave him alone. Yes, dinner with Molly seemed like a very good plan.

"Sure." Molly looked taken aback with the proposition, but no less eager.

"There's an Italian restaurant I enjoy just off of Northumberland Street, and the owner owes me a favour." He did not want to explain the sentimental attachment to Angelo's, so left it there.

Molly smiled up at him, looking genuinely pleased at the development of Sherlock's emotional state.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

And with that, they descended he stairs and headed out into the London night. Sherlock breathed a deep lungful of the chilly air. Being outside again, walking through the streets, observing and deducing people as they went, it was good, refreshing. It cleared his head of the cloud that had fogged his mind with grief and he took the first tentative step towards moving on.

Molly could sense all of this, and knew how difficult it was for the consulting detective to even consider moving on from John's 'death'. Another wave of guilt crashed over her for the part she played in orchestrating John's fall because she saw the pain it caused Sherlock. But she was determined not to think about that.

Instead she looped one of her arms through Sherlock's, who - surprisingly - raised no arguments, and continued to walk into the night.


End file.
